Between them, Frank Thomas and Sammy Sosa have hit 1,036 home runs. That is more than Mickey Mantle and Lou Gehrig hit combined.

Each still is in his 30s. Both believe they have many hits left in their bats. But whether they do or do not, a case already could be made for Thomas and Sosa being, in the 105 years of the White Sox’s existence and the 130-year history of the Cubs, the greatest Chicago baseball stars of all time.

Yet at this moment in time, it is as if neither team wants anything more to do with either man.

How could it have come to this?

Thomas and Sosa have burned their bridges to the extent that no days in their honor are planned and no number-retirement ceremonies are in the works. Staunchly loyal employers reached a breaking point with both players in full view of the public, more or less telling each -in a brusque way that once would not have seemed possible – goodbye and good luck.

It is as if the baseball families of Thomas and Sosa have, for all practical purposes, disowned them.

Things came to a full boil at White Sox training camp when a fed-up Ken Williams minced no words in telling off Thomas for what the general manager perceived as a continued ingratitude. One of these words, “idiot,” was uncommonly blunt, and a phone conversation between the two men Sunday night did not necessarily ease the sting.

Sunday’s outburst by Williams likely was not the best gift Sox chairman Jerry Reinsdorf received the day after his 70th birthday. But it was on Reinsdorf’s behalf that Williams spoke the way he did, resentful of the way Thomas seemingly overlooked everything that the Sox commander-in-chief had done for him.

How quickly relationships can dissolve. It had been Thomas who flew to Cleveland by himself on Sept. 30 to surprise the Sox with cases of champagne in celebration of their division championship. He acted as bartender all night long at their team party.

Thomas attended postseason games in uniform, even though he couldn’t play. He threw out a ceremonial first pitch, sprayed champagne as honorary 26th man in a 25-player World Series celebration, took part in a victory parade and expressed heartfelt thanks to the Sox for the way they “put me on their backs and carried me across the finish line.”

Within a few months, something very sweet had turned oh, so sour. Thomas allegedly said he wouldn’t have participated in any 2005 celebration had he known the Sox wouldn’t invite him back for 2006. Williams reciprocated by not so kindly telling Thomas to keep his nose out of White Sox affairs, now and forever.

It was Sosa all over again: a prince of the city one day, a pariah the next.

Suddenly, no one should anticipate the painting of Thomas’ face on the U.S. Cellular left-field fence alongside Nellie Fox, Luke Appling, etc., even though this is the team’s all-time leader in home runs, RBIs, walks and extra-base hits. What a twist of fate if perhaps the two most talented White Sox ever to take the field – Shoeless Joe Jackson and Thomas – end up as the team’s invisible men.

Sosa, too, is a nowhere man.

He has vanished off Wrigley Field’s radar like a ballyard version of Amelia Earhart. He is a here-today, gone-tomorrow character who hit the most home runs of any Cub and ranks among the team’s top 10 in career hits, walks, RBIs and runs scored, only to become a gladiator without a coliseum.

We have the White Sox erecting statues of men who starred for other organizations (Carlton Fisk) or are still without Hall of Fame membership (Minnie Minoso). They prematurely retired the uniform number of a popular but hardly immortal player (Harold Baines) but are unlikely to do likewise for the most famous man to ever wear No. 35 on 35th Street.

Across town, the Cubs happily run up a flagpole the jersey of a non-Hall of Famer (Ron Santo). They sincerely applaud the induction of a man (Bruce Sutter) who will go into the Hall as a St. Louis Cardinal. And they continue to schedule 2006 promotional giveaways at Wrigley galore, one in honor of a pitcher (Ken Holtzman) who won only 80 games as a Cub.

All the while Sosa remains, possibly on a permanent basis, persona non grata.

The baseball album of Chicago is beginning to resemble a scrapbook in which a once-beloved relative has had his face snipped out of every family picture.

A day may come when Thomas is again hailed in Chicago as a conquering hero and when Sosa is welcomed back with open arms. A sculptor may yet be commissioned to recapture a moment from the past when these men were Chicago’s hardball kings, bigger than big.

For now, however, Thomas and Sosa each have taken a headfirst slide as low as a local hero can go. Both of them have been tagged: out at home.